


That Fucking Windy Boy

by Jay_Spank, Qpenguin98



Category: Homestuck
Genre: ???? - Freeform, Angst, Can Dave ever be happy?, M/M, it's up to you, magic conch says no, sucide attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-25
Updated: 2015-07-25
Packaged: 2018-04-11 03:18:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4419170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jay_Spank/pseuds/Jay_Spank, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Qpenguin98/pseuds/Qpenguin98
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're Dave Strider and you're past your point of no return</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Fucking Windy Boy

**Author's Note:**

> GUESS WHO WROTE WHICH PARTS IN THE COMMENTS BELOW!!!

You’re looking death directly in its fucking sex dilated eyes ready to fucking pound your plush ass raw. And you don’t fucking care. You would let death pound you happily. Which explains why you’re standing on the ledge of this fucking prissy ass hotel smoking your final cigarette ready to Olympic dive into oncoming LA traffic and receive a perfect ten on your splatter.

No matter how many pills you take, no matter how much booze you drown yourself in, no matter how much you talk to Lalonde about it the visons don’t go away. They come back stronger and stronger every fucking day. You can’t sleep for a goddamn second without the seeing your head get fucking chopped off over and over again like it’s on fucking repeat. And the sick fucking kick is that’s not even the worst of it.

You see this boy. This fucking buck tooth boy in blue pajamas that fucks with the wind like it’s his bitch. He’s screaming your name and you try to save him. Every fucking time you try to get to him, but as soon as you get there you’re always a second too late. There’s a blast from the sky burning the boy to nothing more than the contents in your cigarette tray. You then cry out in agony over his ashes like you’re godman Romeo and Juliet. He should mean absolutely nothing to you, but he does.

This buck tooth fuck is your fucking sun. You feel like he’s the love of your life. Whenever the wind blows you see him. You feel him and your heart stops because this fucker keeps on taking your breath away. You have no idea who the fuck this kid is or if he even exists but you fucking love him. You love everything about him. From the banana shoes to his bed head of black hair. He is the apple to your juice and you fucking hate it.

You’re in love with a guy who doesn’t even exist and fucking dies. All because you’re too fucking slow. And you’re too fucking tired to deal with this anymore.

You flick your cigarette in your hand and watch as the ashes fall onto some unknowing guy’s hair. You lean over the railing and drop your head onto the cool metal. Behind you the air conditioner kicks on, a dull droning sound in your ears.

The wind sifts through your hair and you think of the blue boy. In one of the dreams you remember him controlling the wind. You wonder if he’d save you if you jumped.

Your phone dings in your pocket and you ignore it. It dings again and you pull it out. It’s some fucking text asking if you’re up for some opening night interview bullshit. You clench it in your hand and it dings again.

You watch as it plummets to the concrete and shatters. Good fucking riddance. You never cared about that shit. You never fucking cared about any of that. Not the money, not the fame, hell not even your art. You only truly ever cared about was that boy and trying to save him.

Something you failed to do every time.

It makes its way into your fucking movies. Some underlying message you hope he gets if he’s real.

SBaHJ The Movovie comes out tomorrow and, just like the last one, you’re absolutely sure that Mystery Blue Boy won’t get it. You’re almost positive he doesn’t even fucking exist.

Your shattered phone beckons you to come down next to it and you pull your eyes from that to the red end of your cigarette.

You wonder, if he is real, if he dreams about you too. Probably not. Rose doesn’t seem to understand. You don’t even understand yourself. But you’ll understand soon you think.

You adjust your shades and jump in hopes of sweet silence.

**Author's Note:**

> yep... that's it


End file.
